


You’ve got a sad, sad song/And it’s stuck in your aching head

by bigchickcannibalistic



Category: Miss Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And I should apologise to Wato I put her on the spot here, Angst, But she has shit to work through, F/F, Hence this could go way off, So I ignore it completely except what we saw from promos, Written before Ep8, and she's capable of figuring shit out on her own, but also smidgens of fluff, just maybe not the best at processing it all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 06:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14949596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigchickcannibalistic/pseuds/bigchickcannibalistic
Summary: “We are cruellest to ourselves.”“That’s not true.”Sherlock looks up from her cup, eyes piercing, unflinching, demanding behind the steam. No, not demanding, urging. And it could be the steam, or the morning light, or the remains of sleep, but for a moment Sherlock’s eyes look sad.“No?” She asks, eyes refocused on her coffee. Ask in a way that doesn’t expect an answer, as if she already knew.Or - Moriya’s dead. Sherlock’s gone. And ithurts.





	You’ve got a sad, sad song/And it’s stuck in your aching head

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise in advance for the angst. Also I'm led to believe y'all need tissues after the last fic so, erm, prepare that stuff I guess.
> 
> Also all the errors are on me, my brain's shot after too many coffees.
> 
> Title from PVRIS' song "What's Wrong"

 

It happens slowly.

Though, she supposes, to the human eye it happens at a regular pace, nothing odd or misplaced or prolonged about it. Inspector Reimon probably blinks and it’s over. For Shibata it most likely happens too fast to process. Sherlock –

Sherlock doesn’t even blink.

But Wato – oh, Wato feels it claw on the inside of her chest. Feels a pressure building, pressing deep, scraping against her throat, stealing any semblance of words she could make. Her head pulses, ears ringing, the bang echoing all around her. Deafening. Maddening. Everything hurts as if she’s the one fallen on the ground, bleeding out.

It’s over too fast, yet –

She sees it again and again – Sherlock, gun to Moriya; Sherlock looking at her; Sherlock looking away; Sherlock pulling the trigger. Everything crumbling.

_“Who would cry if this miserable world ended?”_

Wato’s certainly crying. Even as the inspector leans her against the wall, his words falling on deaf ears – _spoken through water,_ Wato thinks. She cries even after they cover the body, or maybe especially then because it’s real, _it’s happening, it happened, oh God, oh God._ She cries long after Sherlock disappears. Cries and shakes and cries and crumbles to the ground, knees weak, breaths coming up short and _cries –_

Wato doesn’t think she’ll stop anytime soon.

————————

(There are eight stages of death. Wato had hoped to forget them but one cannot when working with detectives. Cannot when working in a warzone. Cannot when you’re surrounded by death.

Pallor mortis. Algor mortis. Rigor mortis. Livor mortis. Putrefaction. Decomp –

He’s stepped through pallor mortis – body pale, stark against the blood. Lips turning blue, skin taking on an ashen hue. White as a sheet, the westerners say. Ashen like a dead fireplace, Wato argues.

He’s reached algor mortis by now – body cooling with the night, losing all warmth, sucking in the cold to replace –

She won’t be there when rigor mortis sets in. 4 hours is a long time and she’s – she’s not – she doesn’t know. Doesn’t know where she’ll be. Doesn’t know what she’ll do, but she knows she won’t be there.

Doesn’t stop her mind from imagining it, grown bold with morbid curiosity, catching onto gruesome details that have her stomach churning. She blames Sherlock, that insufferable woman with her – her curiosity and – and her –

_A gun fires. Wato can smell the gunpowder._

Fingers press against her eyes, her stomach lurches dangerously.)

————————

Moriya’s dead.

Sherlock’s gone.

And it _hurts._

————————

Wato doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting there. An hour, maybe two? No, certainly no more than one, the police are still here, as are the people in haxmat suits. (They have a name, she’s sure, except she’s too tired to find it.) She can’t feel her butt. Or her fingers, wound tight as they are. Bleached white, ghostly. As if she were to disappear.

Would it even matter if she did?

(Her mind flares to Mrs Hatano’s kind smile. To the inspector’s worried words. To Kento’s inquisitive head tilt. To Sherlock’s calming presence, a hand lingering at her back.)

_(God, Sherlock, what’ve you done?)_

(She must look like a mess.)

“Miss Wato.”

Wato starts, fingers twitching and coiling into fists, folded tight in her lap. She doesn’t know who she expected to see – maybe the inspector – _maybe Sherlock_ – but Miss Irikawa wasn’t even taken into consideration. Which is unkind, really, what with how the woman helped steady Wato while Sherlock was being framed. Most unkind.

And here she is, offering Wato a hand – _“A fresh start. A calm dock.”_

(A fresh start. Just like Sherlock did. Or no. Rather _Kento_ did. Sherlock wished anything but, wanted nothing to do with a would-be-won’t-be doctor with nothing but the clothes on her back and barely stitched together scars. Sherlock wishing to be done with it, but still letting Wato stay.)

(It isn’t like that at all, is it? Wato chose to stay, to find a purpose in Sherlock’s cases, in – in Sherlock’s way of living; in – chose to find – But she’d been wrong, hadn’t she?

A man is dead. Her _boyfriend_ is dead and Sherlock had – and she – and she made a mistake.

And now she’s paying for it.)

Wato’s hand shakes in Miss Irikawa’s grasp. Fingers twitch and dig in. Suddenly unfamiliar how to hold on. Suddenly afraid to let go. Afraid to be lost in the night, afraid of the silence lingering on the roof. Afraid of the echoes and shadows and apparitions of her sleep addled mind, phantasms born of stress and loss. Afraid to be sucked into what ifs.

Wato takes her hand, and let’s herself be guided away.

(Even then her mind betrays her, wanders back to a similar night, sirens flashing and police gathered along the street and a different hand pulling her along, irritated grumbling floating around her. Feels like another life altogether.)

————————

(“Sherlock, what happened?”

“Where’s Wato?” She demands and her eyes zero in on the scrap of paper in Mrs Hatano’s hand, zero in on a familiar script and she snatches it just as quick.

She reads the first two points when it dawns on her – it’s the list of rules, sorted from morning routine to basic courtesy, bulleted and printed in a neat and even font. Black and white.

’cept for the splash of red ink, circling one of the rules – _Don’t get hurt._

Except for the yellow sticky note pinned on the bottom catching Sherlock’s thumb – _I can’t stay._

Something seizes in her chest, propels a drum to her throat, erratic and sharp and – oh, it’s her _heart._

The paper slips between numb fingers, and Sherlock’s breaths come short.)

————————

She couldn’t stay there. Not after last night. Not after everything that was yesterday. Wato can not talk about being left in the dark, it comes with following Sherlock, even if the woman tries with ‘connect the dots’-like logic. Wato can not talk about being left behind, because it was logical first and foremost, even if it hurts like ice down her throat, a voice hissing _she doesn’t trust you_.

But Sherlock killed her boyfriend. Unflinchingly. Like it was nothing.

And Wato can’t look at her right now and just ignore that. If she does, she’ll probably cry again. (She’s been crying a lot these past few hours. She’s never seen Sherlock cry.)

————————

(She doesn’t really want to.)

————————

Just to add salt to the wound her phone pings with Moriya’s name. Wato’s this close to just deleting it. Contents be damned, she’s reached her cap of hurt for half her lifetime. Delete it and be done with it, like ripping out a bandage.

But another part of her, the more sensible part – or maybe sentimental – stays her fingers, urges her to leave it be. _A reminder. A memento._ Leads them to merely swipe the notification away.

————————

The first morning at the Dock – as odd as names go for a house in the outskirts; but with the number of people Miss Irikawa has listed, it seems fitting – the first morning goes bad. Worse, somehow, than waking in 221B with a war clawing at her back, itching beneath the skin, and her mind buzzing from witnessing her mentor’s wife’s murder. From dragging Sherlock off her.

_“She’s dead. She can’t tell you anything. Stop!”_

The restlessness is worse. Keeps her from sleep, from staring at the non-descript ceiling, imagining phantom spots where leaf-green paint stubbornly pushed through. She falls back on counting the invisible spots – _one, two, three – twelve, thirteen, fourteen_ –

Fingers tapping against her phone. Unlock. Lock. Unlock. Lock. Unlock.

_“Either fidget in a productive manner or deal with it.”_

Wato inhales, closing her eyes as she holds her breath – _one two three four_ – fingers blindly tapping the password. She doesn’t exhale until a resolute _snip_ reaches her ears, and even then she keeps her eyes closed. She doesn’t need them to find her messages, to bring up her last conversation with Sherlock.

When Wato opens her eyes, squinting at the bright screen, she studiously ignores the last two messages – The cause of all this, as stupid as that sounds but Wato needs something to blame and she can’t – it hurts to – messages are the easier target. Above the last two is an innocent text:

_In contrast to the rest of their family members, foxes are not pack animals. When raising their young, they live in small families—called a “leash of foxes” or a “skulk of foxes”—in underground burrows. Otherwise, they hunt and sleep alone._

(Wato had been working at a pet store that week, a posting she checked on a whim after helping Mrs Hatano clean her bird’s nest. Sherlock had decided to send her random facts about animals, both domesticated and very unlikely to ever get domesticated.

_So it wasn’t a one-time thing_ , Wato had thought, and felt peculiarly invigorated by the fact.)

Now Wato bites her lip, trying to stifle sobs, hand against her aching chest.

————————

(Sherlock doesn’t sleep. Not that she actually tries. Too wired, pacing her apartment like a caged animal, hands shaking and mind going _think_ _think think think think think think think_

_Find her find her find her find her find her find her_

_A failure._

She stops, hands coiled close to her head, shoulders locked uncomfortably.

_What a failure._

“Shut up.”

_Lost someone else._

“Shut. Up.” Palms press into her eyes, fingers bury into her hair, nails scrape against her skin, and she hisses _shut up shut up_ until all she hears is her wheezy, wet breaths.

_Wato._ )

————————

Morning greets her like a stranger. She didn’t miss feeling so disoriented. Or lost. Definitely didn’t miss the latter.

————————

“Are you feeling better?” Miss Irikawa – _“Irikawa’s fine”_ – asks over breakfast.

“Yes. Thank you very much.” It’s a lie. But to speak the truth would be spitting on Irikawa’s hand, the safe haven she’s offered. Opening her home to so many of her patients, helping them even when off the clock. _“People don’t suddenly find their way when our time runs out. A guide doesn’t know for business hours.”_

A guide in the dark – _“The Northern Star, a guide for sailors in the dark.”_ Like the painting in Moriya’s home. But that’s merely a coincidence.

It is brave and kind to open one’s home to strangers. Kinder still to offer it to Wato. So Wato lies, and tries not to think about the needles on her neck.

————————

Irikawa gives her the grand – _“not so grand”_ – tour of the house, apologising for not doing it last night but given her state, Wato doesn’t blame her for skipping. Anything other than a room for herself Wato would’ve ignored. She almost missed that as well.

Is a deceptively spacious home, organised for maximum efficiency and with furniture similar to that in her office. Even a few paintings are the same. Even the bird stickers, littering several walls in various colourful patterns.

Wato stops deeper into the field surrounding the house, eyes lingering on the two people she’s seen during breakfast – one she recalls from therapy, hastily leaving the doctor’s office after rescheduling. They were beating wooden dummies with – with sticks? Jerky, swift motions yet Wato recognised a routine underneath it. Maybe not in the left person, but the right – he’s definitely done this before.

“Anger therapy.” Wato starts at Irikawa’s voice. The woman smiles kindly. “Good for working through your emotions. Perhaps we should try it?”

“I don’t think beating a tree will help.”

“Better than yourself.”

_(“We are cruellest to ourselves.”_

_“That’s not true.”_

_Sherlock looks up from her cup, eyes piercing, unflinching, demanding behind the steam. No, not demanding, urging. And it could be the steam, or the morning light, or the remains of sleep, but for a moment Sherlock’s eyes look sad._

_“No?” she asks, eyes refocused on her coffee. Asks in a way that doesn’t expect an answer, as if she already knew. Wato thinks about the layers she put on this morning, thinks about mapping her shoulder and lower back until she could recount where every shard of shrapnel was. Thinks about Sherlock’s constant need for distractions, and realises – maybe she does know.)_

————————

Wato holds the staff awkwardly in her hands, grip unsteady and ever shifting. She looks at the trunk and waits. Waits for whatever’s supposed to lead her through this, whatever surge of anger she’s supposed to find strong enough to beat wood with wood.

For a very “straightforward” approach it isn’t very forthcoming.

“What’re you angry at, Wato?”

“Nothing.” It’s the truth. Her chest feels hollowed out, as if her insides were scooped up and left on the roof, or swiped away in a brown long coat. Part of her sure feels like it has, and all she has is a shell of herself, moving through the motions.

“Not even Sherlock?” Wato’s eyes shoot toward Irikawa, standing a safe distance away from the trunk. “Moriya died because of her, didn’t he? She shot him, didn’t she? Your boyfriend – gone, taken away in one flash.”

Wato can still see it. Moriya standing closer to the edge. Sherlock with her gun pointed at him. Sherlock staring ahead. Wato can still feel the chill, the sweat sticking to her neck, her forehead. Can still feel the phantom screams as she swallows.

“Your world –” Wato closes her eyes. “Gone. With –”

Sherlock looks at her.

“A –”

Wato lurches forward, hands balling.

“Bang.”

Wood snaps against wood, an echoing sound that leaves Wato’s ears ringing, has her arms shaking, leaves her knees wobbly. Wato opens her eyes but doesn’t see the trunk. She sees Sherlock, sees her surprised look, sees where the wooden staff’s – where it’s –

Sees the red mark on Sherlock’s hand, pictures the spot clearly, in the perfect shape of her staff. Wato can’t see the gun, but it doesn’t matter, she’s not looking for the gun. She’s focused on Sherlock, imaginary or not; focused on her hand, on the red mark and Wato – and she –

Her stomach drops.

The staff slips from her grasp, clattering. The noise rattles Wato, echoes in her head like a gong, an oversized bell and her eyes slam shut at the pain. Slam shut but she forces them open – open so she can see the daylight, open so she’s not back in the dark, back atop that roof, back –

Open only to see the tree trunk before her. Open only to feel a hand on her shoulder. Open only to realise it’s Irikawa’s hand, not –

————————

“That was good.”

Wato can’t find the words, so she hums noncommittedly. She keeps her eyes trained on her hands, mapping the twitches and shakes with her breathing. It doesn’t help.

————————

Sherlock killed Moriya.

_“He’s infected.”_

They won’t stop shaking.

(They won’t stop shaking.)

————————

“Your friend killed him.”

Part of Wato knows, furiously, stubbornly, irrevocably _knows_ Sherlock wouldn’t kill. She wouldn’t. Not when – not when she just stood there, shocked that their suspect slit his throat. Not when her hands were shaking, cramped together in a makeshift fist, fingers digging in, stubbornly trying to hide it. Not when she looked so terrified, so openly terrified and vulnerably. Not when –

_“You kill by stabbing the liver.”_

_“Don’t.”_

Not when the knife came within an inch and stopped. Not when she listened. She wouldn’t –

(Wato rubs at her temple, pain flaring behind her eyes, low on her forehead. She rubs and rubs until she realises she’s pressing her nails in dangerously, realises the flash of pain is her tugging on her hair.)

She looked at Wato. Slowly with a minute movement of her head, with a flicker of change on her face – a speck of recognition and – and –

She looked at Wato and shot him. She didn’t stop. Shot him, left the gun and ran. Like it was nothing – like she was playing the cello – like –

She looked at Wato and the look haunts her still. Keeps dragging her back to the scene again and again and again until she’s sure she’s gone mad. Wato doesn’t understand why. Doesn’t want to dig. Doesn’t want to remember – _it hurts it hurts it hurts_ – but she remembers.

Remembers Sherlock’s eyes in the dark, remembers shaking Sherlock out of her daze as the police neared, two people dead, the real asshole alive and weeping. Remembers thinking, in the darkness, on that roof, for a heartbeat – thinking _Oh, it’s that look again. It doesn’t suit her_ –

Fear doesn’t suit her.

“She’s not my friend,” Wato mutters amid the pain. The words burn on her tongue.

————————

But Moriya’s dead and Sherlock’s gone and Wato’s alone so what does it matter?

Sherlock still killed someone.

But if Moriya was infected. If that were true. If it were true, Sherlock spared him a slow death, saved the city by stopping the disease. Stopped him from making Tokyo like one of his photos. If he was infected and alive, Tokyo would provide enough photos to fill another one of his albums.

_But how could he have been?_ He’s been with her most of the day, has refused to leave her side since leaving Irikawa’s office, had been nothing but supportive – If he’d been infected, surely he’d not go to a roof?

_Maybe Sherlock forced him._

Why? Why when the thief was still on the loose? Why not send him to quarantine?

How about this: Why didn’t Moriya go to a hospital immediately?

_Because he didn’t know. Because Sherlock didn’t tell him. Because the alternative means he’d known he was infected while he was with her, because the symptoms emerge within 24 hours so he’d have to have gotten infected the day before but he was –_

He was with Wato. He couldn’t have –

_Why is it so easy to blame her and not him, Wato?_ – It rings in a cold, familiar voice, and Wato half expects her to come out of the shadows of her room. But Sherlock’s not here. She’s out doing who knows what. Flourishing without her, probably. Looking for Stella Maris.

But she can imagine her, standing at the foot of Wato’s bed, arms crossed, head tilted in question and a hard, unreadable expression on her face. It almost takes her back to 221B, to a narrow hall, to Sherlock in her green sleeping gown, staring at her expectantly. It’s almost enough to make the bed feel like wood against her back, almost enough to lure back a heaviness in her chest. She can almost taste the smell of jasmine tea. Almost.

But she’s not there. She left.

_Why blame me?_ She demands but she’s not here, and Wato’s alone and lost and confused and _why why why why_

“Because you’re not my friend.” _Because I trusted you and I was wrong._

————————

(“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Because of a certain someone I’m being monitored –”

“Now who could that be?” she says reflexively but her hearts not into it. It’s scattered, jumping all around the room, all around this abandoned theatre – a second safe haven, just in case – jumping jumping jumping because of that woman.

The gall of that woman. The arrogance. And Sherlock was too slow, too blind to see before it was too late. Before she took –

_Wato._

“So no, I can’t track Wato’s cellphone.”

“The police can’t find it,” she recites with a voice foreign to her. No, not foreign. Forgotten. Buried deep into the farthest corner of her memory. She speaks with a voice coated in loss, coated from the shadows of a too silent home, crushing down on her shoulders. She speaks with a voice of a dead woman. Of a woman she tried to bury.

“They can’t find it.” Her fists come down against the seat before she can stop herself. Her fingers dig into ruined upholstery. _One-two-three-four. Exhale._ “I can’t find it. Or of that _therapist._ Like she didn’t have one at all.”

Kento’s shadow falls over her, covers what little working lights they have. “How much chocolate did you eat, Sherlock?”

“Not important.” Sherlock ignores his knowing tilt. Ignores his half-asked question. Turns her back to his admonishments. Turns her back to his worry. She knows what he’ll say – _you’re too close, you’re relapsing, you can’t help her like this, you’ll tear yourself apart like this._

“If she hurts her,” Sherlock starts, five rows higher than where she was, three rows away from the door. Coated in darkness, coat heavy on her shoulders, sticky note crumbled in her pocket. Mind reeling on the video, _“Please take care of her.”_

Like hell they will. Like hell she’d let them.

“If she hurts her, I won’t forgive myself,” Sherlock whispers, but inside her head she screams.)

————————

“What would you do to protect those precious to you?”

Wato looks down at the gun in her hand – a gun of all things, placed delicately on the table outside, well away from the house; placed delicately and waiting for her, the grip a perfect size for her palm. The metal cold against her skin. She looks at the gun and her shaking fingers and wonders _Was it like this for her?_

“Wouldn’t you do everything in your power, Wato?”

No, no it wasn’t. Sherlock’s hands are steady where Wato’s are uncertain. And isn’t that ironic – a doctor with uncertain hands? A doctor with fingers clumsy on stitches, stony when applying bandages, cold where they’re supposed to be hot, hesitant when they’re supposed to save lives.

_“A doctor’s second most valuable asset? Their hands.”_ Wato remembers her professor saying. Wato closes her eyes, inhales and holds it in. Pictures holding the gun like holding one of her medical tools. Pictures steady hands, wrapped in gloves. Pictures –

Blood and sand and gunpowder and so much blood, pouring down.

Strapped to a chair, tape digging into her wrists but it doesn’t give, no matter how hard she tries, it doesn’t give, only digs in further –

Another pair steady beneath a shaking cup, steady in the wake of phantom currents. Silent as they take it from her grasp. Lingering, too much to be an accident, as they give her a distraction. Lingering still as they pat her on the arm, as they drag her forward one case after another until they’re not dragging anymore –

Pictures still her own surprisingly steady as they bandage wounds. Decisive as they treat burns. Steady holding a delicate wrist – not a vice, never a vice, Sherlock flinches from –

Feels a calloused yet soft hand as it grasps her shoulder, phantom tickles as fingers skid along her neck, distracting as Wato treats a shallow cut on her neck, her own fingers – her own flickering to Sherlock’s chin, flicking the underside when Sherlock moves too much or needles.

Always needles, always teases.

Yet her hands were never harsh. Guiding, insisting but never harsh.

Wato opens her eyes and sees Sherlock on the other end of the gun. Wato’s never jumped back faster in her life, dropping the gun to the ground – safety, is the safety on? – only for Sherlock to fade like the illusion she was. Only for Wato to flinch at the hand on her shoulder.

“You saw her, didn’t you?”

Wato can’t make her words work.

————————

_Sherlock wakes her with a series of messages, most of which are a repetition of the first – Get up. Her clock reads 5:44 in the morning and Wato groans into her pillow._

_Why?_

_She’s barely sent it when her phone vibrates furiously – Be ready in five minutes, flashing on her screen before it goes dark and Wato jumps out of bed. Still grumbling mind._

_Wato tilts her head at the neon sign, casts a curious glance about the restaurant’s interior – though she supposes this is closer to a diner than a restaurant proper – notes there are only three other patrons at this hour. Still, she follows Sherlock to their seats, doesn’t argue when Sherlock immediately orders for them._

_Wato doubts she would’ve picked anything besides tea. Her stomach’s still back at 221B, cozy in her bed._

_“See the road to your left?”_

_Wato starts, glances up from idly stirring her noodles, then quickly follows Sherlock’s pointed nudge. The road’s not anything special, perhaps narrower than the one they took to get here. It’s easy to miss except for the locksmith’s sign hanging skewed on the corner._

_“What’s on it?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_Sherlock glares at her, annoyed for missing something Wato’s sure, and Wato huffs. It’s 6 in the morning, she’s allowed to be slow, damn it. “Use your eyes, not doctor. What do they see? List it.”_

_With an eye roll, Wato turns back to the street and starts listing: several apartment buildings, a small shop cramped behind a vibrant drink store, maybe a bag shop – she can’t make out the sign – and a coffee shop on the corner with another street._

_“You turn into that little street, and follow it down to the end. You know what you see?” Wato shakes her head. Sherlock grins. “A phone repair service.”_

_“Is this your way of telling me you need a new phone?” Wato deadpans, stabbing her sticks into a noodle, much to Sherlock’s audible displeasure. Wato slides her bowl over, eyes trained on Sherlock._

_“My phone’s fine,” Sherlock mumbles through a mouthful, making Wato wrinkle her nose at the (somewhat adorable) sight. She at least waits to swallow it down before speaking, “But take a left there and at the end you’ll find an abandoned church.”_

_“And that’s what this is about. You woke me up for church?”_

_“No. Well –” She pokes her chopstick in Wato’s direction, eyes gleaming dangerously in the neon light. “Not in that sense. No sermons or any of that rubbish. Just the useful things. Like a real, physical sanctuary.”_

_“Why?”_

_“For emergencies.” And Sherlock stands without a word, goes to the exit before Wato has a chance to get her bag, or –_

_“Oi, Sherlock, the bill!”_

————————

She can’t help but think this house seems like that ruined church – placed in the middle of nowhere, looking misplaced as anything, orderly in its own way, warm in its own way, and a makeshift sanctuary.

Except this place is alive where the church was dead. This place is kept alive where the church was in ruins. And still something doesn’t sit right, and still Wato has trouble sleeping. Everyone’s warm, and accepting and friendly and polite and still – It’s all so nice and _still._

It’s nice, wrapped in comfort and acknowledgements and words and words and so many words Wato’s getting sick of it. Like a pressure building against her head. Like a drum – _dum – dum – dum – tshhhh tshhh – DUM_ – like an orchestra in church, echoing, engulfing; maddening enough to make you slip. To claw at your ears until it stops, to lock yourself in a room until they leave you alone, until you scream – _Leave me alone, too many words, too many sugar coated, rotting words, you_ –

Mrs Hatano is supportive, but only a nudge. Vibrant but never loud. Comforting but not smothering, not patronising. Honest in her politeness. Generous in her leisure.

Sherlock is kind in her silences. Speaks more with her eyes, with her hands than any of them have for the past three days. She doesn’t coddle. She doesn’t sweeten it. She doesn’t lie without even uttering a word. She makes the space bloom, and left Wato with a void she can’t fill, a void she didn’t want, and void that hurts and hurts and she –

_She’s not here. Not here. Not here. Not here. Not here. Not here._

_She’s cold and distant and never really cared._

_Stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it_

_She shot a man –_

_He was infected_

_You’re not even friends!_

————————

Moriya’s dead. Her would-be world, her connection to the rest – dead.

“Sherlock’s not your friend. Was she ever your friend?”

And Sherlock took that away. Took away her link to the rest of the world, took away her link to normalcy – to finally feel like she belongs in society. To finally stop feeling like she’s walking along the edges, finally not watching from outside, to finally stop feeling like she’s an anomaly in her own life. She could’ve finally continued on with her life, continued like Syria never happened, like she isn’t ignoring her dream to be a doctor ( _“I want to help people. To make a difference.”_ ) To pretend like she hadn’t drifted.

“Shouldn’t a killer like her feel the same pain you do?”

Wato looks down at the gun, fingers clinging tightly at the metal.

Sherlock took all of that away.

_Did she really?_ Whispers a voice much like Sherlock. If she closes her eyes, Wato can imagine she’s right next to her. _Took him away, sure. But it’s idiotic to put such a person on a pedestal._

He wasn’t on a pedestal.

_Your link to normalcy. A perfect opportunity to forget yourself._ Wato’s neck burns as phantom eyes stare at her. _Is that what you wanted from him? To feel normal? To belong?_

_Yes_. Wato nearly whispers the words.

_No, you didn’t._ There’s a grin even in the thoughts, and a chill runs down her arms as phantom fingers reach for her hand, bring up the other to cradle the gun in both. Hands that have tugged her along, steady the gun until Wato’s grip is secure. Until it’s pointing at Sherlock’s chest.

_If you wanted normalcy, you’d have stayed behind, ignored every case. Humoured me in the most basic of necessities. A reclusive roommate in its full definition._

She still doesn’t belong. She can never belong, not after Syria, not after getting electrocuted, not after being nearly killed in a garage, not after Sherlock shot –

_You’re right, you don’t belong there._ _But you know you never belonged there. And Moriya wouldn’t have changed that. He would’ve just –_

Wato opens her eyes, sees a trunk where Sherlock was. Finger poised at the trigger. A chill runs down her neck, sweat cools against her forehead uncomfortably, and she feels bile rise in her throat.

————————

Yet she can still feel phantom fingers against hers. The words still ring in her ears even as she lowers the gun, even as her breaths come short, even as she tries to push them down. _He would’ve just made it more painfully obvious._

————————

“It’s one thing to hope, Wato,” Irikawa says after a long pause. Wato nearly forgot she was there. Nearly forgot where they were. Nearly forgot she has a gun in her hands until Irikawa comes over to steady her, like but unlike phantom Sherlock. Distant, polite. Wato didn’t know polite could be so cold.

“But,” she continues, stepping back and gesturing toward the trunk. “When that hope leaves you shackled to someone who doesn’t even care – is it worth it?”

“Doesn’t care.”

_“Sherlock made too much toner.”_

_“Your mother tried to protect you, brat.”_

_“There’s a room full of pillows and sheets. Unused and gathering dust because someone’s sentimental.”_

_“Not that coat.”_

(Wato turns around, surprised to find Sherlock awake, hair mussed, sleeping gown hanging awkwardly and bags under her eyes. She looks better than when Wato found her passed out at in her armchair, clinging to several papers and books, but she should very much still be in bed.

“It melds with your hair. Tie it back or lose the coat. I –” A yawn interrupts her, and Sherlock stretches against the doorframe. (And Wato studiously doesn’t follow the movement.) “I’m partial to the latter but whatever.”

“But it’s freezing outside. And this is the warmest coat I have.”

Sherlock squints, lips tugging down briefly. “Rubbish.” And she tosses Wato the first coat she finds – the Hermes, stain-free which Wato doubts was coincidentally just lying there on the armchair. She definitely doesn’t remember seeing it last night.

The coat is warmer, however, and Wato will take what she can get.

With an appreciative nod, Sherlock returns to her apartment. “Don’t squeeze it too much, there still might be body bits.”

“Sherlock!”

But the door’s already closed.)

She does care. Wato can lie to herself about a great many things, can ignore a great many things more, but not this. Only amnesia could wipe away this and she’s certain even then she’d pick up on it. Sherlock does care it’s just quiet. Yet loud, in a very Sherlock way that seems quiet to people who don’t know her. Lost in the details.

Can someone’s silence be so quiet, yet so loud so as you feel a void at your side when it’s gone? A pillar to keep you up, an invisible hand over hers. A grin near her cheek. Fingers nudging food her way. Refolding her shirts with a _tsk_.

_But she didn’t listen –_ a part of her hisses. _She didn’t stop. And now –_

Dead. Gone. _Alone._

Alone because she couldn’t go back home and look at Sherlock, because she would remember what Sherlock did. Because she put it all on a man she knew maybe a handful of weeks, a man who gave her as insignificant details as they come. A man she thought she was meant to love, that it was fate. ( _Just because you think you should doesn’t mean you do.)_

A man she thought she loved but when Sherlock shot him – Wato’s embarrassed to admit, buried it so deep down she couldn’t find it in all of the grief, could’ve easily ignored it save for seeing Sherlock.

Because when he died, Wato’s heart broke. It broke because _Sherlock_ shot him. It broke because she believed, argued, was ready to fight policemen to prove Sherlock wouldn’t kill anyone. And seeing it _broke her heart._

_Enough to you yourself kill?_

Wato lowers the gun.

————————

(It’s been a while since she’s been slapped, Sherlock will admit. She’ll also admit Mrs Hatano packs a punch – or slap, in this case – despite her frame. Though she does exercise various sports, depending on her whim and fancy.

“Ow,” Sherlock mumbles into her hand, fingers poking at tender flesh. Eyeing Mrs Hatano – coiled as she is, debating whether to advance or not. Clearly still furious at Sherlock for whatever reason.

“Get your head out of your ass.” Sherlock raises her brows at the profanity. She can’t remember Mrs Hatano cursing in her presence, much less at her. Even if she deserves it. She still hasn’t found either Moriwaki or Wato, followed up on dead ends and is left with stale breadcrumbs of different breads. The inspector has stretched himself as far as he can. Kento can’t do a thing, has tried everything she has. It’s all on her.

And she’s failing.

“My head can’t physically be up my ass.”

“You know what I mean. You won’t find Wato like this. Moping about –”

“I’m not moping.” Sherlock stands, still nursing her cheek. “I’m thinking. Investigating. I’m trying.”

“You’ve put more effort in finding strangers than your friend –”

“She’s not my –”

“Enough with that.” Mrs Hatano steps forward, invades Sherlock’s space and Sherlock wouldn’t put it past her to knock her down again. But Mrs Hatano merely pokes her in the chest. Repeats twice more before she says, “It’s not true. You wouldn’t be like this if it were true.”

“Like what?” Sherlock challenges even if she knows the answer. Challenges even as Mrs Hatano simply looks at her, eyes knowing and sad and scolding at once. Challenges because she wants someone to say it and she can’t bring herself to admit it – she can’t bring herself to admit how much Wato’s come to mean to her. Can’t bring herself to admit it so she breaks her first self-imposed rule: _No self-deceptions._

“Bring her home,” Mrs Hatano says instead. “Bring her home so you can tell her yourself.”)

————————

_She shot a man –_

_He was infected_

_You’re not even friends!_

No. No they’re not. But they’re – Sherlock is – Sherlock is Sherlock. And that’s more important. It’s more important. And Wato – Wato feels like she can breathe again. Feels like something unfurled in her chest, feels much like how she thinks Sherlock feels when she figures it all out.

Sherlock is Sherlock and she ran from the police for over two days. Sherlock is Sherlock and she wouldn’t look at Wato, gun to the ground and shrouded in shadows. Sherlock is Sherlock and she ran again. Sherlock is Sherlock and she left her _again._

Sherlock is Sherlock and she sent that message from Moriya’s phone. The one Wato ignores, day in day out. The one she can’t bring herself to look, fearing what parting words he left. Rather fearing she’ll grow to hate Sherlock. But no. Not anymore, she can’t ignore it anymore because let’s look at the facts:

-It was sent after he died. Wato had no signal problems when she got it, not like in this house.

-Sherlock could’ve easily swiped it off him. She’s done it before _– one missing glove, her sweet rolls, her notebook which Sherlock bought as well so why – the bird drawings that’s why_

She can’t ignore it because she needs answers. Because she feels she’s tearing herself apart without them. Because a part of her hurts hurts hurts and another believes believes believes and she just wants to _know._

————————

This is what she learns:

-Moriya was infected and he did it to himself. Moriya planned to die. (And his sluggishness, his paleness take on a new twist – not that of a man tired and aghast at Sherlock’s actions, at the descriptions of the virus’ effect – but that of an infected man.)

That means – Sherlock killed him to save the city. _She wouldn’t kill someone –_ she would to save lives and Wato’s so relieved her head spins.

-He told them to take care of Wato. Moriya was a blank page and had a painting of the North Star. (The same one Wato found in this house, in the hallway leading to the back entrance. Hidden well beneath plants, and she thought it a coincidence at the time.)

_(“What a coincidence.”_

_“Hardly. There’s no such thing as coincidences. Or fate. What happens to us is our own doing.”_

_“So he chose to get struck by a faulty telephone wire?”_

_Sherlock’s shadow circles around the corpse, until it’s falling over Wato. “No. He chose to run through a clearly marked construction site. But also, the wire wouldn’t have struck him had the worker replaced it properly.”_

_Wato looks over, brow raised._

_“Our own doing. He chose to run. The worker chose to be lazy. Wire. Charred. Simple, no?”)_

She learns:

-Moriya was – is – was Stella Maris.

-Mariko Irikawa is Stella Maris.

But she couldn’t. He couldn’t.

_“Eliminate the impossible and you’re left with the unlikely truth.”_

————————

And it hits her, like a bucket of ice water:

-Wato walked right into their hands.

-And she’s alone.

“Shit.”

————————

She needs a plan. An idea. Concrete. Doable. Something. Anything.

Leave, run, get as far away as possible.

_No, they’ll just know I know. They’ll find me before I reach home. They’ll disappear and it’ll be all for naught._

Survive, then. Survive and Sherlock will find you.

_That won’t do at all._

_Think think think think think think think think_

What would Sherlock do?

Poke. Prod. Annoy. Get kicked out.

_No. Think. What would Sherlock do?_

Connect the dots. Figure it out. Get out. Kill someone.

_Stop it stop it stop it –_

Stand with her hands shaking and on the crisp of a panic attack. Pull herself together. Pull herself back and –

_Observe._

Observe.

————————

Observe.

Whatever Irikawa told her is most likely a ploy. Oh God, but Wato told her _everything_. Led her straight to Sherlock. Led her straight to Moriya. Or rather, it’s the other way around, isn’t it? Stupid. No wonder he felt like a blank page. No wonder they both talked about fate. _Stupid stupid stupid stupid_

_Enough_ – rings Sherlock’s voice.

Observe.

The house has no reception. Deliberate, Wato’s certain, so she needs to get out. Needs to get out and send her a message. Needs to sneak out in the middle of the night – _use the back entrance_ – needs to find a field where she wouldn’t stand out – _the range, the training dummies_ –

Needs to figure out where the hell she is.

A house outside of Tokyo. Possibly way out, given the forest and the span of the yard and the quiet – eerie, nerve-wracking silence. There has to be something useful, even an absurd little detail like the type of architecture or a previous owner or the type of trees that grow around here, _something_ –

_“There are a lot of staffs leftover from the previous owner. A fencer of a sort if memory serves.”_

Wato hurries to unlock her phone, fingers shaking so much she nearly drops it twice. She stops at the last message from Sherlock – _I’ll be waiting._

God Wato really hopes so.

————————

(Her phone nearly blows her cover. Luckily Sherlock slips into an empty room in the nick of time.

It’s also fortunate the room’s empty, otherwise someone would’ve seen Sherlock lean unsteadily against the door, would’ve heard her unmistakable gasp. Would’ve been flummoxed at her abrupt, borderline hysterical laughter.

All because she got a message.)

————————

Here is the thing:

Wato has to play along otherwise Irikawa will catch on. So far anyone connected to Stella Maris ended up dead, and Wato really, really prefers to stay alive. And she would really, really like to go home, to see Mrs Hatano, and to do what she should’ve done in the first place – find out the truth from Sherlock.

(It has been an emotionally rough few days so Wato’s allowed to ignore logic for prolonged periods of time, okay?)

So she plays along.

A little too well perhaps because Irikawa suddenly wants them to move – to confront Sherlock, because she deems Wato ready, because it’s what Wato needs. Because –

_Wato pulled the trigger, arms flexing at the recoil and breath quickly leaving her lungs._

_“You saw her?”_

_“Yes.”_

Because apparently Mariko Irikawa for all her therapy knowledge – or bullshit, anything’s possible at this point – for all her talks – and manipulations – can’t tell Wato is _lying._

There’s irony there, hidden behind the realisation that she’ll have to hold Sherlock at gunpoint, realisation that they’ll practically ambush Sherlock who’s possibly still a fugitive or on probation, but after the stint with Shibata, Wato doubts they’ve renewed her contract. Realisation that the first time Wato’ll see Sherlock in three days, she’ll hold her at gunpoint otherwise Irikawa will know and flee or worse pull out her own gun – she could have it; Wato didn’t bother to check –

( _Hands fall on her shoulders, fingers dig in and the pain brings her back to the present. Her eyes blink away the sands and red and bodies, morphs the sandy uniform into a brown long coat, into Sherlock in a brown long coat. Sherlock looking at her with her brows pulled together, eyes focused on her and –_

_Is that worry Wato sees?_

_“Breathe.”_

_Wato scrunches her face, confused until she tries to speak and no words come out. Until she realises the noise in her ears is her own breathing – quick and sharp and wild and –_

_She can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe_

_“Stop. Stop. Listen –” Fingers tighten on her shoulders, force her to focus on Sherlock, on her lips so she can understand her. She reads “Breathe” and numbers._

_One two three four –_ )

Wato inhales, and starts counting – _one two three four five six seven –_ exhales and starts counting again _– one two three four five six seven eight._ Rinse and repeat until her hands stop shaking.

————————

They corner her on a roof, of all places, standing over another body – Wato recognises him from the house, and anger burns in her throat. Anger that Maris Stella cares nothing for the people. Just uses and uses and –

That’s their plan with her, isn’t it? Use and use until she’s dead like Yuko Shiina. Like Moriya. Like the man next to Sherlock.

Wato has her gun trained on Sherlock but she really, really wishes the head of Maris Stella was there instead. At least then it would all be over, at least then her hands wouldn’t shake, at least then she wouldn’t feel her heart breaking. (As if she would’ve shot the head of Maris Stella. Shooting that trunk was a fluke, and brought on enough horrid memories Wato can do without it all.)

“Fitting,” Sherlock says and starts moving forward. Face calm and arms loose at her side and why is she just accepting this? _Stop,_ Wato wants to scream; _stop stop, run run, get away, don’t_

But Sherlock stops before her, the barrel pressing into her shirt and Wato bites her lip to stop the words. It takes all of her willpower to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

“If anyone should shoot me, it’s you, Wato.” And Sherlock smiles a warm, vulnerable, accepting smile. _Go ahead,_ it says and bile rises in Wato’s throat, shivers wrack through her body and her hands start to shake. Sherlock the insufferable woman helps her, takes the barrel and keeps it trained on her chest – left side, right where the heart should be, damn her.

“I’ll only accept a bullet from a friend. My only friend.” Wato’s sure she must look like a fool, eyes wide and mouth hanging, but Sherlock smiles like she’s the most precious thing in the world and _it hurts._ “My Wato.”

(God damn this woman and her timing.)

Something’s squeezing her heart, crushing it slowly and if she thought watching Sherlock shoot Moriya was bad, this feels like dying. Actual physical dying and she can’t do this, she can’t even pretend to do this, she can’t _she can’t she can’t._

“Pity.” Wato hears, a voice belonging to a woman she forgot was even on the roof, and it’s a split second decision. No, rather instinct. Instinct to protect, to save, to dive forward and tackle Sherlock to the ground, instinct that sends them toppling as something sizzles against Wato’s cheek.

And it’s instinct that has her pressing her hands to Sherlock’s shoulder – pierced through muscle, a clean shot, too high to hit the heart, but the blood – _that’s so much blood_. And it’s pure instinct that has her stop Sherlock’s hand, has her pick it up from where it’s clinging to her coat. Has her completely ignoring Irikawa because the footsteps are moving away from them. Irikawa’s _running_. _She’ll get away_ , another part hisses; she’ll disappear, another link to Maris Stella gone –

She’s not bleeding, _Sherlock’s bleeding_ –

And Wato doesn’t even look back, doesn’t even bother asking permission to get the coat off doesn’t even hesitate to tear off a part to stop the bleeding. Her hands are red, getting redder still as she moves Sherlock against the edge, for better reach of the entry wound. But steady as they press against the wound, nimble as they wrap the cloth.

She doesn’t even notice Sherlock’s squeezing her other hand, not until the fingers turn shaky and fidgeting, and tug insistently, not until she feels two tap against her wrist. Not until she feels fingers nudge against her cheek.

Until she hears a shaken _Wato,_ and her heart tumbles to the ground.

Footsteps approach – two pairs, and then a familiar voice shouts Sherlock’s name, and Wato’s never been more relieved to see the inspector and Shibata.

————————

Sherlock will be fine.

Wato repeats it again and again until they’re done treating her. Until they let her visit. Until she stands beside Sherlock’s bed, tired beyond belief just by looking at the sleeping woman. The words stop once she takes Sherlock’s hand, feels the pulse beat steadily against her fingers.

————————

“Sorry,” Wato blurts out the first chance she gets, once she’s sure Sherlock’s awake and her eyes are clear and focused.

And Sherlock ever laughing at Wato’s expectations merely tilts her head back, scrunches her brows together, frowns in that confused, cute way she can, and asks, “What for?”

For letting Irikawa escape. For nearly getting you killed. For not stopping Stella Maris. For freaking out that you killed someone, for thinking you did it simply because –

For not being able to forgive you just yet – forgive you for the silence and the distance and – and the hurt.

“I wouldn’t forgive myself either.” Sherlock’s frown morphs to a small grin, eyes soft and imploring. “Don’t beat yourself over it.”

“Still,” Wato argues but no other words come forth, so it hangs between them as silence falls.

“I will try to be better,” Sherlock says and looks at Wato, expecting her to know what she’s talking about. Despite her frazzled state, or maybe because of it, Wato can pick up clearly what Sherlock’s talking about – _I’ll try to be better at trusting you, and not leaving you in the dark_.

“I can see. Either that or you were sleep deprived when you called me friend,” Wato aims for light but Sherlock’s face is still serious and her good hand shoots out before she thinks better of it and leaves it to hang off the bed.

“I meant, Wato.”

“I know,” Wato says, serious. She exhales, leans back fully into her chair and mumbles, “But ‘My Wato’ and at gunpoint! So dramatic!”

“Such a critic. I was pouring my heart out, Wato.”

“So few words in your heart. Is it like the brain, only a cupboard?”

And though Sherlock pouts at Wato, her eyes dance with laughter, and Wato can’t help her own tired smile. Finally feels her heart settle in her chest. Feels like she’s not drifting after all.

————————

Sherlock killed someone.

Irikawa’s gone.

Maris Stella still exists.

But they hesitantly release Sherlock the next day with a sling and instructions to keep strenuous physical activities to a minimum, and they can go home.

Mrs Hatano greets them both with a hug – a proper and long one for Wato, squeezing so much Wato has to remind her she needs air; and a not so long one for Sherlock, keeping away from her injury.

Wato steps into 221B proper, and Mrs Hatano’s bird – Songbird – greets them with his favourite song, and Wato realises she’s worried about belonging in the wrong place. Realises she’s _home._

————————

Of course Sherlock doesn’t listen to the doctor’s orders.

Of course Wato comes down to Sherlock arguing with Mrs Hatano over her shoulder and not wearing her sling.

What she doesn’t expect is to see the table in Sherlock’s kitchen packed with food, enough for a two-person breakfast and then some. Nor does she expect the food to be home made and not various forms of takeout. Or that there’s a freshly brewed batch of her favourite tea.

Or that Sherlock’s the one insisting Wato sits down for a proper meal – “They probably fed you scraps in that place, look at your face, at those cheeks.”

And she goes to pat at Wato’s cheeks but Wato merely looks at Sherlock’s injured arm out of her sling, then at her cup of coffee and asks, “You made your own coffee?”

“Yes.”

Wato doesn’t even take a whiff of the coffee, she simply takes the cup and goes to make another one. “Put on the sling, Sherlock,” she shoots over her shoulder.

“It doesn’t go with my gown.”

Wato peeks back into the room. “I don’t care. Put it on or no coffee.” And she swears she can hear Sherlock pout. She can definitely hear Mrs Hatano chuckling.

She’s happy to find Sherlock sitting at the table, both waiting for her and wearing her sling even if it clashes with her aesthetic. Her smile positively bloom, but whether it’s at the sight of Sherlock appreciating her coffee or the fact she’s having breakfast with Sherlock – prepared by Sherlock – well, she’ll figure it out later.

(She’s pretty sure it’s both. Even if Sherlock has to silently judge her choice of sauce.)

 


End file.
